


Corn Syrup

by battybatzgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale means best but that's not always great for him, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Eavesdropping, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), He didn't expect these EMOTIONS, Kid!Warlock, M/M, Sexual harassment hidden between the lines, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Warlock just really wants candy, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), Zira just wants his demon to be loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 08:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21317206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battybatzgirl/pseuds/battybatzgirl
Summary: When looking to snag a few leftover sweets after bedtime, Warlock overhears a conversation in the kitchen.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling, Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 338





	Corn Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, it's been such a joy to watch the GO fandom rise with the new show. I've been lurking around the tags for a while, but have decided it's about time to get cracking on writing some fics of my own. I'm still learning the voices of these characters, so bear with me.

It was late—far past Warlock’s bedtime. He kept his steps light, keeping his weight perfectly balanced on his toes. Nanny Ashtoreth always had a way of catching him whenever he was doing something wrong—and while most of the time she encouraged him to break the rules set by his parents, bed by 10:30p.m. was the one law she held to heart.

He already had a lie on his lips if she caught him. He was thirsty, he’d say. He was going to get a glass of water, and certainly wasn’t going to sneak into the stash of sweets jar. Halloween was last week, but he still had plenty of candy, no thanks to Nanny’s sharp eye when he tried to sneak some past her after dinner.

This time, he’d get the advantage on her.

As he rounded the corner in the hall into the kitchen, he stopped and immediately slunk close to the wall. The lights in the kitchen were on, casting a soft glowing halo into the dark hall. Warlock could hear soft voices coming from inside, so as he inched closer, he kept his back against the wall to stay hidden.

It seemed that, somehow, Nanny had beaten him to the sweets jar. She was perched on top of the kitchen counter, casually leaned back against the cabinets, legs splayed wide under her skirt. Her tweed jacket was thrown across the back of a chair, but her dark glasses remained stubbornly on. Warlock blinked—that was the most casual he’d ever seen her look before. But he wasn’t focused on her posture for too long, because her other hand was nearly elbow-deep in his sweets jar.

“’M just sayin’,” she said, digging through the jar, “Better on me than on a human.”

The person in the room with her made a little distressed noise. It was Brother Francis, wringing his hat between his hands. “Yes—yes but—that doesn’t make it right.”

“Who said it had to be right?” Nanny pulled out a little candy—butterscotch, Warlock could tell by the orange wrapping—and popped it in her mouth. Warlock gritted his teeth, but knew whatever consequence he would face slipping into the kitchen would be worse if he admitted to listening in to this conversation.

Nanny got testy whenever Warlock brought up her relationship with Brother Francis. Defensive. Warlock never understood _why_, because it was so _painfully obvious_ that they knew each other, even though she pretended they didn’t. Clearly, they were conspiring to eat all his Halloween candy together.

“I _do_,” Francis insisted. “You’re only encouraging this kind of behavior by not reporting it.”

Nanny made a face, and to Warlock’s horror, she spit out the little butterscotch. “Corn syrup. Not even real sugar. Those cheap bastards.”

“Never a replacement for the real thing,” Francis said, sounding a little crestfallen. Then, he seemed to chide himself because he stood a little straighter. “If you don’t report it, I will.”

“Angel,” Nanny drawled, “you think a pair like the Dowlings will care that a member of their help tattled about harassment? They didn’t even notice that their own flesh and blood wanted to go trick-or-treating.”

Warlock frowned a little. His parents hadn’t wanted to take him trick-or-treating? He didn’t know. Nanny was the one who offered to take him as soon as the idea popped into his mind. He’d dressed up as Batman; “At least you’re a creature of the night,” Nanny had mused, dryly amused. “Technically.”

“Davis shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it,” Francis said, and Warlock frowned. Davis was one of his maths tutors that came to the house twice a week. Warlock didn’t like maths, but Nanny insisted he learn because, “You’ll never know how to count corpses of the damned unless you learn proper multiplication, love.”

Davis was nice enough. He talked to Nanny a lot. He sometimes told her jokes, whispered so quietly in her ear that Warlock never heard, but Nanny never laughed. They only made her thin mouth grow thinner, until her lips were nearly white from the strain.

Warlock didn’t know what Davis did wrong—but if Nanny was upset with him, he couldn’t get in trouble for kicking the teacher particularly hard in the shins, right? Warlock liked to practice his football kick, and Nanny tended to turn the other way whenever he practiced on the mailman.

“He’s got no hope for himself,” Nanny said, sounding bored. Her legs swung back and forth on the counter as she casually dipped her hand back into the sweets jar. “Lost cause to our lot, that one. Might as well let him fancy his bits while he still can.”

“There’s always room for improvement,” Brother Francis said, though his voice wavered with doubt. He moved forward and, quickly, as if capturing a snake by the throat, grabbed one of Nanny’s gloved hands. “I—I don’t like this.” Nanny went rigid under Francis’s fingers, and the breath got caught in Warlock’s lungs. _No one_ touched Nanny without her permission. Not even him. “It isn’t fair to you. You—you’re better than this.”

With a little growl, Nanny ripped her hands out of Francis’s hands. “Oh, I’m _better_, am I?”

She leaned forward, something about her suddenly darkened. “I’m the tempter. That’sss my job. That’s why I look like thissss.” She gestured to her frame rather crudely, like you’d point out a piece of meat you’d like at a deli. “I’m designed to make the eyes wander. But I’m _better_ than letting a human’s lust get in the way of my comfort.” She rolled her shoulders and shuddered her spine, making a show of shuddering in disgust. It might have been the lighting, but Warlock swore he saw her tongue go forked.

Francis glared at her, a stubborn set to his mouth. The expression was similar to one Warlock’s mother wore when she got frustrated with him. “I meant you _deserve_ better.”

“My little halo has already burnt out, I’m afraid.”

“Stop being difficult dear, you know very well what I mean—”

“I’m afraid I very well don’t, oh almighty sword wielder—"

“I don’t need to explain myself,” Francis said, now sounding fussy, as if he had missed his afternoon nap, “because I know allowing a human to—to pick at you is not what you want!”

Nanny’s lip curled. “How do _you_ know what _I_ want?”

“Well, for starters, I know you want m—” Brother Francis cut himself off, clamping down on his jaw hard so fast his teeth clicked.

Nanny sprung off the counter, suddenly centimeters away from Francis’s face. Their bodies had only the barest of breath between them. “Ssssay it,” she hissed, “Say it right now. I dare you.”

For a moment, they both just stared at each other. Nanny’s chest was heaving with her furious breaths, while Francis seemed to have gone carefully still. The tension in the air was so heated, Warlock thought a fire might break out on the stove.

“I know,” Francis said softly, so softly Warlock had to crane himself to hear. “I know you better than what you think I do, Crowley.”

Nanny jumped away from him in the next instant. Her narrow shoulders were high around her ears with tension as she hastily started to put away the candy jar.

His parents danced around each other like this, sometimes. When his mother was impatiently waiting for his father to apologize, though not clueing him into what he had done wrong in the first place. Warlock wondered briefly what Brother Francis had—or hadn’t—done that made Nanny so cross.

“Don’t you have some plants you should be watering?”

And just like that, the intensity in the air dissolved, as if it had never been there before at all. Francis smiled a little warily, looking silently relieved that Nanny had dropped whatever secret subject they had been talking about. “It’s almost midnight, dear. I think the Begonias can suffer one hour and not be watered.”

Nanny turned and frowned. “Begonias don’t need watering every hour. They’re a minimal plant.” Then, she gave Francis a stern look over the rims of her glasses. “Tell me you haven’t been watering them hourly.”

Francis’s face turned pink. “I, erm. I haven’t.”

Nanny huffed and rolled her eyes, the sharp jut of her hipbone cocking to one side. “You’re ridiculous, angel.” Though there was a softness in her voice that told Warlock that she really must have thought otherwise.

Francis opened his mouth and reached forward for a moment, then seemed to catch himself and drew his hand back down to his side. Nanny watched it all behind her glasses, dark enough to hide any emotion that might have betrayed her cool façade.

“I’ll go fix the bloody garden.”

Nanny reached for her jacket and Warlock’s heart jolted. He scrambled out of the hallway as fast as he could, not caring if she heard him. His heart pounded as he whipped open his door and slid into his sheets, counting the seconds to see if Nanny had followed him. After a few minutes, his breathing slowed, certain he had gotten away. The fuzziness of sleep began to tug at his limbs, and soon all thoughts of candies and tutor Davis were slipping from his mind.

He didn’t hear the door open—only feeling the light shift of someone slipping something under his pillow.

“Eavesdropping is a nassssty habit,” a voice whispered softly in his ear, “even for little monsters like you.” Warlock couldn’t tell if it was real or he had just imagined it, because a breath later, sleep overtook him.

The next morning, he found a bundle of butterscotches under his pillow. Warlock couldn’t quite remember if he was successful in stealing them from the kitchen last night or not, only thinking of corn syrup and how it left a sticky film in his mouth. But he did remember that, for some reason, he'd have to reserve a particularly hard kick to Davis’s shins today.


End file.
